On This Spot 2: Return To The Fog
by Nimbus 1944
Summary: If Muggles could only see all the odd things in their world, and wonder...
1. Castlespotting

**On This Spot 2:Return to the Fog  
****If Muggles could only see all the  
****odd things in their world, and wonder...**

By magic fenc'd, by spells encompass'd round,  
No mortal touch'd this interdicted ground  
- Tickell, _Kensington Garden_

**1. Castlespotting.**

_Remember our last? If not, you may want to read "On This Spot". This is what followed..._

Once the wizarding world realised it wasn't the 11th century any longer, and their cloaking of the Hogsmeade vicinity was not sufficient for modern technology, the wizards extended the cloaking to orbital altitudes, and into the ultraviolet and infrared wavelengths. Satellites only saw a blurry blank spot. Once more, all was right with the magical world of Hogwarts and Hogsmeade.

Well, almost. There was still the matter of a detailed satellite photo, taken _before_ the recloaking.

The photo wasn't blurry at all. Nor did it show a ruins overrun by critters, and a stinking swamp, as any visual inspection showed.

No, the old satellite view showed a pristine castle, a beautiful lake, roads, manicured lawns, and a little country village nearby. You could even see the dirt road the survey team had taken, running from the single-lane road in the Muggle farm town of Bumpus toward the mysterious village in the woods. If that were not enough, there was also the single-track railway, running from a station near the village to the woods nearby, where the track simply ended. On the track sat a steam locomotive, and five cars. What was a mile-long railway doing in the middle of the mountains?

There it was, all laid out, and absolutely locatable down to the fraction of a meter. The satellite company backed it, Kiki's contacts at the aerial survey company trusted it --

And Kiki Rankin could only post it in an enlargement on the wall directly in front of her desk, where it tantalised her every day. She would sit staring at that photo, tapping her fingertips on the tabletop. Ever so often, she would unroll the huge sheet her graphics man had made from the photo. It was a very detailed map, showing castle towers, bridges, greenhouses, paths, railway, docks, shoreline, forest, and a playing field (for what strange sport?). She knew the exact GPS coordinates of everything, even if any GPS receiver would be useless the moment she walked in.

Oh, no, it was not her playful imagination that made her so willing to believe in this little kingdom!

Here at Rankin & Raven Engineers Ltd., Union Street, Aberdeen, failure was unacceptable -- yet she and her crew of surveyours had left that Kent job site at full speed, their tails between their legs, and told the client to quietly back out of the tax sale.

She knew, somehow, that the whole night of terrors had been staged to chase them away. But who would manipulate them that way? And, more significantly, who _could?_ A ghost had tipped his head and walked _through_ Randall, her survey crew chief. A green witch had circled their campfire on a broomstick at midnight, cackling like something out of _Wizard of Oz._ All electronics had gone absolutely dead, from the Land Rover's accumulator to the calculator in her own pocket.

She knew far less than enough, and that bothered her logical, methodical, professional mind.

But she knew where her world ended and the connivers' world began, and who stood at the line between. One was the long-time property owner of record, who claimed on their forms that the land was a wildlife sanctuary. Another was an identifiable resident of the nearby farming community, a hunter named Noonan.

How to tackle this conundrum?

Putting Mitch Cameron on the case would be a good start.


	2. Birdspotting

**2. Birdspotting.**

Mitchell Benedict Arnold Cameron, slight of build and short on scruples, turned up at Kiki's office with his first report in early February. According to the needs of the moment, Mr. Cameron might hand you a business card showing himself to be an auto mechanic, dancing instructor, traveling salesman, minister, investigator of the supernatural, tree surgeon, chimney sweep, musician's agent, shipping executive or what have you.

In truth, he ran a private investigation agency.

"What do you have for me, Mitch?" asked Kiki, kicking her handbag under the desk, out of reach of her ever-nosy visitor.

Mitch consulted his notebook and had at it. "Well! I rented a room from a Mrs. Shelby in beautiful downtown Bumpus, while purporting to be a writer from Sheffield who specialises in the supernatural, looking for a new place to live and work, like walking in the woods, for inspiration and all that -- and I asked a lot of questions around.

"On rabid ferrets and owls, the local sawbones has seen zero cases of rabies in his 14 years in practise. So much for Mr. Noonan's story.

"Now, let's consider your rustic friend himself. Mr. Jock Noonan, 32 , of Bumpus, Kent, pretty much tends his crops and chickens and rabbits. No matter what he told you, he never goes hunting near the property in question. When he does go on the hunt with his mates, they go down the road to another forest completely, and they go for deer in season, or small game. If he said they hunt snakes, that's news to anybody else I've talked to.

"Which is not to say that Jock never goes into the mystery area. From time to time, he does... never armed, never outfitted for the hunt, but always in warm clothing as though he'd be outdoors awhile. When he goes, he's always with his neighbor, one Angus McGee, known as Scotty, and they both wear dark red scarves with gold stripes, for some reason. They only go on occasional Saturdays, and weather is not a factor.

"Some folk from down the road named Mulholland go in from time to time, but not dressed to hunt either. If it's a striped-scarf Saturday, they might have a few weekend house guests, and they go in a bunch, including their kids. The others are wearing scarves too, men and women alike, but might have different colours. So far I've photographed four colour combinations.

"The mystery person in the Noonan house is actually Jock's wife Katy. She's 31, a local, youngest of three daughters of a farmer named McGregor up the road. Everybody says she went away to school, but nobody knows where. Stays home with her 2-year-old, mostly. But every weekend, Saturdays and Sundays, she walks down that path into the woods about 7.45 in the morning and doesn't come out until about 4.15, like clockwork. When they're both out, the McGregors tend the toddler.

"I chatted up a shopkeeper about some of the locals. When it came to Katy Noonan, he thought she might have something to do with Scandinavians or something, perhaps by post, as she once handed him a little coin marked 1 Knut, then took it back when she saw his confusion. Haven't been able to find out what country that is, but maybe they're on the Euro now. It might not mean nothing.

"The boys around the Goose & Milkmaid don't mind talking if a stranger buys a round, so I did. They all know and love the Noonans; nice folk. To a man, they all say nobody ever goes into that property 'cos it's haunted, and always has been. I asked if a woman would be safe alone in there, and they shuddered at the thought. Oh, the nearby folk knew about it when you lot drove into the fog there, and they heard the engines all quit at once, and that afternoon they heard your screams! They were very, very surprised when you came out in one piece the next morning.

"Aaand, I asked them if they ever saw anything eerie outside of that place. They said the sky was the place to watch. From time to time, they swear, they've seen witches riding on brooms. They also reckon there's an abnormal number of owls, for no good reason -- coming and going at all hours from that property.

"So, while waiting for Katy to exit the woods, I spent my time birding. No broomsticks while I was there, but they're right about the owls. I lost count. _Lots _of flights, _lots_ of owls, all different sizes and shapes. I photographed just a few, and there were about 10 species, I'd say, some of which don't belong anywheres near Scotland. I'm having those shots blown up and identified. Now usually, if an owl is carrying something, it's like a mouse or vole, right? Get this. Up close, you can see _these_ birds are carrying boxes and envelopes and things, like a bunch of ruddy carrier pigeons! How strange is that?"

Kiki was intrigued. "About as strange as it can get! So -- packages going to and from an unoccupied blasted heath, using owls. Plus flying witch sightings, which I can attest to.

"Plus, a farmwife wanders into this no-man's land for 8 hours twice every weekend, alone. I have an idea on her. If it was a city building, I'd say Katy's timing would suggest she worked there. And are you a sport fan, Mitch?"

"Nah. Got no time for it."

"I didn't think so -- or you might have concluded that these folks are attending a game of some sort, and the four sets of colours were teams in a small league. That would explain the weird pitch in the photo. Okay, keep someone on Bumpus. If Noonan doesn't drink, see if Angus what's-his-name is chatty about sporting after few rounds; see if he slips. Meanwhile, have somebody in London try to track down the owners -- Alaetan Wildlife Sanctuary, supposedly a eco group. Here's the Kent County tax information on them."

"A sanctuary, yet! That sort of puts the lie to Mr. Noonan's story; doesn't it? I mean, why would they let anyone hunt in a wildlife refuge?"

"Becuse it's not a refuge -- not for snakes, or much else. It's a _front_. Whoever is doing this uses the snakes to protect the property from prying eyes."

"Ooo. Sounds like spy stuff! So Katy must be working for the spooks. MI5, MI6, y'think?" suggested Cameron.

"That possibility was raised before, when the satellite photos hazed over. I don't think so now. They're good at hiding themselves, given enough time, but they were amateurs at spotting the need for it. It was almost like they didn't know anyone could see them from 200 miles up! Suddenly they realised satellites happen, and compensated for it."

"They'd have to have their heads in the sand to not expect satellite cameras these days. So you believe that old photo?"

"I believe the old photo. And I don't think the men are going in there for the MI6 intramurals. There's a castle and a village in there -- and for some reason, when we're on the ground, we can't see it or detect it."

"And how are you going to find this Brigadoon of yours?"

"I'm not, Mr. Cameron," said Kiki, jumping to her feet and putting on her coat. "Eventually, little Katy Farmwife and her lying husband are going to take me there. Get me a gold-and-red scarf exactly like his. Maybe I can go watch the secret-agent jorkyball tournament, or whatever it is. Meanwhile, I've got to ring up a man about a railway. "

-o-

"Nothing even close."

"I understand, sir; 20 miles of nothing in between, but what station is closest?" asked Kiki.

"Acnashallach," said Denny Agor of Hightrans, the local railway. "But from there on up the mountains, ye're on yer own. Why, even if blinkin' Disney put a park in Kent County, he'd have to build a jetport, 'cos there's certainly no rail. As for thir roads, God paved 'em with dirt, and Kent's content with that. Miserable place for transport, and we're certainly not goin' to lay 30, 40 miles of twisty rail on vertical real estate to get to North Nowhere."

"So... there never has been a railway to Bumpus?"

"BUMPUS? It nothin' but two hogs and a haystack! Dear lord, who's going to ride the rail from blinkin' BUMPUS?"

"My sentiments exactly. Yet here's a satellite photo showing a steam engine sitting at a mystery station near Bumpus, Kent. We enlarged it as usual, and compared the train to the size of known objects in the foreground. My mapper says the rail's 'standard gauge', and the engine's a '4-6-0' -- whatever all that is."

"Wheel count." Agor paused, trying to keep calm, then continued. "But have you been there and seen it, Miss Rankin?"

"Been there, _didn't _see it."

"I don't fancy you would. I'm a rail fan. If there was, say, an old steam-power minin' spur up there, I'd know it, and me mates would've been there by now with cameras, metal detectors an' everythin'. Trust me, there's nothin' there, not even as a museum. And we hain't run a ruddy 4-6-0 in regular service in 40 years. Your photo's someplace else, or completely bogus."

"Thank you, Mr. Agor."


	3. Trainspotting

**3. Trainspotting.**

Early on Feb. 28, the unmarked Land Rover turned off the A831 near Erchless Castle onto the road through Glen Strathfarrar. It passed Inchvuilt and approached Loch Monar, the reservoir in the shape of a flying dragon. It turned southwest on the dirt trail into the mountains, leading to the remotest, ruggedest piece of land in Scotland to ever constitute a habitable county.

Once the Rover entered Kent, where rural pride led them to number every road in the official style, the washboard road had the audacity to start calling itself the C859.

Near the village of Althers -- which had post twice a week, telephones and its own little hydro power plant -- the Rover turned north on the C861. The driver had to gauge the path by the few landmarks available, because by now the rural road had been covered by snow. It passed the few shops in the hamlet of Bumpus and a farm or two, then east past the "haunted" land -- the place with a ruined castle by the swamp called Loch Alaetan, the Forsaken Lake, where legend said a giant squid lived.

As the sun dawned over the mountains, they stopped a mile beyond the haunted area. Kiki exited on the passenger side, stretching. "So where's your demonstration, Mitch?" she yawned.

"Follow me. Lift your feet; lots of branches and stuff under the snow."

They trudged and stumbled to an innocuous, unpainted survey stake. "Like the sign says back there, we're now officially trespassing. Adjacent to your mystery lot, this little sliver is registered land -- property of some ministry in the British government, but they don't exactly say which one. According to your photo, the railway runs from your mystery station down that path toward us here, then between these two big maples by the boulder -- and, for no good reason, stops. Come on, let's take a stroll."

Kiki saw nothing of interest, but she followed Mitch to the east, walking between the two maples...

... and felt a sickening lurch. It was like someone had put a shepherd's crook around her waist and violently yanked her forward. She was momentarily disoriented.

"Mitch -- sorry, I'm suddenly feeling nauseous. Maybe we can do this some other day."

"I should have warned you. Don't fret; it'll go away in a minute. Now, where are you?"

"What do you mean? I'm here."

"Wull, yes, but where's here? Funny thing about those two trees you just passed. Take another look at them."

She looked back. Weren't they maples, by a boulder? Not now. Behind her were two evergreens -- and beyond, an evergreen forest surrounded by a stone wall.

"Uh... Mitch, what just happened? Did I black out?"

"You're okay. Check your GPS."

She did. Surprisingly, it was working.

"Wait a minute. The map view says I'm in Glenfinnan."

"That's not all. Brush away the snow, and what do you find on this side of the trees?"

She slid one booted foot around, and hit something hard. Squatting down, she brushed the snow away, and saw a length of shiny rail.

Mitch smirked. "It suddenly starts by those logs between the trees, by the stone wall. It's an old siding of standard gauge, four-foot-eight, running a half-mile to the main railway line. And yep, we are in Glenfinnan -- not surprisingly, on a little sliver of government land, heavily posted with warning signs."

"It may be an old siding, Mitch, but it's not abandoned. If it was, the rail would be rusty. This track is in regular use."

"You noticed, Dr. Watson! I'll make a detective out of you yet."

"But... how did we get here?"

"Follow me back between the trees. Mind your breakfast, now."

She kept her eyes on her surroundings this time. With another yank behind her navel, the evergreens disappeared, the GPS went blank, and she was back by the boulder. It was easier when she was prepared for it.

Mitch folded his arms. "Okay, Watson. Now, brush the snow away again on _this_ side of the trees, and tell me what you find."

She did, or tried to. She found the continuation of the same hard, smooth metal rail -- but saw only snow.

"That's impossible. It... It's there, I feel it, but it's... invisible..."

"Welcome back to Bumpus. See what's comin' off? It's Star Trek in Scotland! There isn't any track down the mountains; they don't need it! The train runs from your invisible mystery station to right here, between these trees, and _teleports_, like we just did. Teleports 37 miles to Glenfinnan, where the track continues. Still think they're not MI6 weird-science or something?"

"So it's just 'Beam me up, Scotty,' and a whole train goes back and forth?"

"Yep. Carryin' whatever's too big for the owls to carry, I guess."

"Oh, yes. The owls."

"I've propped a stake midway between the tracks every day for a week, and another stake in Glenfinnan. Twice a day, same time, they both get knocked down. In the early evening, they flop inward; early morning, they flop outbound. Ergo and therefore, one round trip a day. Prop another telltale stake on the other side of the two trees and it never moves a bit. There you are, did everything but buy you a ticket. Wanna see the nice train go by, little girl?"

"Maybe not while I'm standing on the tracks."

"You won't see it anyway -- it's invisible too, and silent. Ought to be departing Bumpus soon, so I'll prop up my stake, and we'll wait behind the boulder."

They crouched and waited. At one minute after the hour, he said, "Now, watch the special effects show."

At a distance, small branches overhanging the forest path became agitated, as though in a breeze. The powdery snow also stirred, as though pushed aside by a wide broom. The invisible breeze-and- broom came toward them, then between the trees. They squinted in blowing snow for a few seconds, then it all stopped. It hadn't made any sound.

"Breeze blew this way, notice," he said. "Snow blew off the so-called path, and my stake now leans east."

"Interesting," understated Kiki.

"More Holmesian detective work: The daily train is the same train as in your photo."

"How can you tell that, if it's invisible?"

"A few days ago, I buried a box over here, all mechanical, no electronics. An old spring-wound pen recorder, with an arm over by the tracks. Counted the wheels and how far apart they were. That, plus a chemical analysis on the branches over the track, showing 'em a wee high in sulphurous carbon soot. Result: you've got an old steam engine up front. And tell me, why is a steam locomotive like a baby?"

"I have no idea."

"Because it has a tender behind. Haw! Thought I'd throw that in, not important, pay it no mind. So anyway -- the engine, which is a 4-6-0, plus its tender behind, is pulling five carriages -- just like in the photo. It's for passengers, so figure one for freight and luggage, and four for people. Being steam, she won't draw power, so the railway electrical folk won't even notice. Down at Glenfinnan, I've witnessed the track switch operate by itself when the phantom turns onto the main line and heads south. That made me think -- if we could follow track switches flipping by themselves for no reason, and write down where and when, we'd know where it's going and how fast, right? That took a bit of doing. My trainspotters lost the path once, when it ran through a switchyard, but we found it again on the other side."

"How do you know it's for passengers?"

"I'm coming to that."

"Can we get to the bottom line, Mitch?"

"It makes an impossible run."

"How so?"

"A steam engine that size would be good for short rounds, maybe a hundred miles at most, and would have to stop for water and coal. It doesn't. Couldn't if it wanted to; BR doesn't have coaling stations any more. Also -- it would have to take a siding every time it met another train; it doesn't. Also -- it should take a day off for maintenance now and then; it doesn't."

"I'm not hearing where it goes, Mitch."

"London."

"LONDON?"

"Yep! Bumpus to London, non-stop daily. Imagine that, for a little butter-and-eggs town in the Highland! It goes into Kings Cross yard, and takes a dead-end siding between tracks 9 and 10. God only knows where it goes from there. Tight security at that end, so I can't walk the tracks to check it out. She chuffs out of London again at 11 the next morning."

"Now, you know all this just because you see switches operate? That's a little weak. Convince me, Mitch."

"Try this, then. When those scarf Saturdays are coming up, more than a few people stroll into Kings Cross station wearing those very scarves -- often wearing colourful robes too; easy to spot. Same four colour combinations on the scarves. Without exception, they choose the platform for tracks 9 and 10. Then, who knows. When the next trains pull out of that platform, the scarf-and-robe people aren't on either train. So where did they go? I can't tell. Every time we've tried to trail them, we lose them in the crowd. I can tell you, though, the same folk come back to the platform Sunday morning."

"Wow. Good work, Mitch. You're never conventional, but you always get it done. Did you buy a scarf for me?"

"Better than that -- I got a real one! A colourfully-dressed gent happened to, er, accidentally lose his scarf at Kings Cross. Same combination as Mr. Noonan's. It's in the Rover."

"Then it's time for me to flash my team colours around town, and see what response I get."


	4. Scarfspotting

**4. Scarfspotting.**

The scarf didn't prove to be productive. Mitch left town, and Kiki took over his quarters in Bumpus, telling Mrs. Shelby she was also a writer, looking for a sampling of the Highlands life, particularly nature in winter. Wearing the scarf around town brought no response at all.

With the scarf in her pocket, she began walking down the C861 each day to the mysterious woods, and off into the trees to observe. Sitting there a while in the cold, she saw the many owls coming and going. That weekend, she saw Katy Noonan walk down the path, on schedule, but, there were no scarves.

She spotted Jock Noonan one day, off to hunt with his friends. She avoided him; he might remember her, having ridden in her company Land Rover on the first trip here.

More than once, she tried walking down the path on her own, but each time, there were snakes... threatening growls from the woods... low-flying birds nearly colliding with her... thorny vines looming across the ever-narrowing trail. She never went too far before giving in to these fearful intimidations.

On the second Saturday, she got very lucky. At 7.28 in the morning, two men walked into the woods, one wearing a scarf of blue and bronze, and the other the familiar dark red and gold. Today was her day! She retreated through the woods towards Bumpus, putting on her scarf, then stepped out on the road and began walking back toward the path.

Sure enough, as she neared the path at 7:45, she encountered Katy Noonan, walking to work.

"Good morning," said Kiki. "May I join you? This is my first time in."

"O' course. Especially fer a Gryffindor fan! Are ye from the valley?"

"No, I'm from Surrey. I drove up, and took a room in town. Wanted to see the country for a few days, otherwise I would have gone from King's Cross with the others."

"Thot's the easiest way, fer sure. But ye're doing right to get here early and get a good seat. M'husband and his friends'll be doing the same. Beautidul day fer it. Ha' ye been to Hogsmeade, at least?"

"No."

"Thot's where I work, in the book shop. Ye be getting here early enough to skive a spot of tea and whatnot before going to the pitch."

By now, they had long since passed the place where creatures and vines usually intervened. Nothing had happened. The trail stayed as wide and clear as ever, and any birds in the vicinity were busily hunting seeds. It was working!

Kiki remembered the odd coin Katy had once proffered in town. "Do I need knuts and the like?"

"Or Muggle money, either one. The storekeepers ken, and they take both; or ye can stop at the bank and change shillings for sickles and so on. It's depending on how long ye're staying, I suppose. So! Do ye have kin in Gryffindor?"

Kiki wasn't sure how to answer that. "Oh... it runs in the family."

"Likewise. M'husband's a Muggle, tho. M' little one hain't shown any signs o' powers yet. I'm hopeful still."

"I hope it turns out all right for you."

"Thank ye. Well, here we be."

And here they were, at a village she had only seen in a photo from two hundred miles overhead. There was a playpark at the outskirts, and something caught her eye right off: her own company's logo! It was on the tents they had left behind that day, which were now set up in the playpark.  
Beyond was a beautiful medieval-looking street of small shops, with villagers mostly dressed in robes. Mitch had mentioned robes, but Kiki had overlooked that little detail.

"I hope my winter coat won't make me too exceptional. It's very comfortable."

"Not t' worry, ye won't be alone. Many folk prefer coats, especially on a breezy day. Cuppa?"

After an hour outdoors in February, Kiki was not prone to argue with that. "Great idea. I can use a little inner warmth." They ducked into the doorway at _The Three Broomsticks_. Kiki had reached her Brigadoon. It all went well for her -- for a while.


	5. Spotterspotting

**5. Spotterspotting.**

In a short chat over tea and biscuits, Kiki heard the rules of Quidditch and the names of the teams. From the repeated use of the term "Hog-warts", she gathered that was the overall name of the castle-like place. By inserting a few innocent-sounding comments in the conversation, she began to learn more about the school...

...until a voice said, "Ah! Miss Rankin, I believe. How's the surveyin' business these days?"

It was Jock Noonan, with a knowing smile. He sat down with them. Obviously, the jig was up.

"Hello, Mr. Noonan," Kiki answered. "Business is good. How's the snake-hunting scam these days?"

"Foggy. Very foggy."

Katy was confused by all this. "Jock, ye know this lady?"

"Of course. This is the lady engineer who was here a few months ago, surveying. Remember? The Muggles from Aberdeen?" Katy said nothing, suddenly realising she had already said and done far too much in the company of this deceitful stranger.

Jock continued. "Surprised to see you in here, of course, Miss Rankin. How did you manage it? Did you walk in with Katy?"

"That seemed like it might work, and it did. So here I am, in Hog's Mead, and now I'm going to go over to Hog Warts and watch a Quiddidge game. It's been a very educational day already, Mr. Noonan. Katy is quite informative."

"Well, she's a fine person, and makes friends easily. Once we're in Hogsmeade, we don't encounter many adult shysters, and certainly not Muggles."

"I might argue over who's been shystering whom, considering what our team went through... mice, snakes and your famous rabid ferrets. The head-tipping ghost was a nice touch. Tell me, what was lurking around in our tents at Midnight?"

"Elves, actually. Perfectly harmless."

Then, a very old man who had sat at the next table spoke up.

"Uh...pardon my interrupting, folks, but if I might. It's Miss Rankin, I believe?"

"Oh, wonderful. Another kindly face in the crowd!"

"I understand your frustration, Miss Rankin. When I heard there was a stranger in town, I thought I should stop by."

"After all I've been through, don't I deserve some answers?"

"I thought not, until I heard your name. A thought has now come to me that perhaps all this _is_ unnecessary, and we should chat. May I join you?"

"And who in blazes are you?"

"Well, my employers tell me I'm headmaster of that castle down the road. Would that interest you enough?"

It did. "Have a seat, Mr. -- ?"

"Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore. Do you know where you are in this world, Miss Rankin?"

"I know roughly where I am. 57 degrees 22 and some north, 5 degrees 4 and some west, before the GPS quits. Are _you _in the real world, Mr. Dumbledore?"

"For the most part. I go to London when I can; the food in the small shops is excellent. We don't have that many real-world ties here. No telephone or electricity, for instance. But we do have a postcode, oddly enough; IV4 705. We need that for the many average individuals around the world who know us and have to keep in touch somehow. It's a special box in Bumpus."

"Now, why would you need post? Is there a shortage of owls?"

"Oh, you know of our owls, do you? Excellent messengers. They are very efficient, speedy and faithful."

"I'm sure. We already have remarkable photos of your owls -- carrying packages and whatnot. And photos of the folks showing up on Saturdays for your 4-team sporting event - except, of course, Katy here, who can't attend the games because she works in here 8 to 5, every weekend, tending the book shop."

"A very nice young lady, as I'm sure you've found out. Go on."

"We already know about the train that leaves here every day, and teleports down to the main line, for a run to your private stop between tracks 9 and 10 in Kings Cross, and returns in the late afternoon. None of that is my imagination. It isn't rabid ferrets, or head-loose ghosts, or green witches, or a Land Rover suddenly chock-full of mice, or special-effects fog, or any of your other mumbo-jumbo. It's investigated and proven _facts_. I have _proof._ QUITE A BIT OF PROOF, MR. DUMBLEDORE!"

"I'm sure. I must commend you; you've been most clever and persistant in your investigation."

"I started from irrefutable proof. I have a photo from space, taken before you did all your hocus-pocus. It shows everything! I had a very detailed map made from it, that shows every foot of this place. You shan't argue against that."

"Ah, but neither would I want you arguing _from _it. _Accio_ Miss Rankin's Hogwarts photos and maps."

"Pardon? What's otchy-oh?"

"A summoning charm. That having been said, your objects are now wafting their way to me. Sorry to relieve you of them, at least temporarily. They'll be quite a curiosity to our students and staff. Perhaps we'll hang them in the corridors -- yes, that would be nice."

She smirked. "If wishes were maps, perhaps -- but you can't have them, Mr. Dumbledore. I'm not about to surrender my evidence!"

"Oh, but you already have, actually. Perhaps, a smaller-scale demonstration will clarify what I'm saying. _Accio_ Miss Rankin's keys."

Obediently, her keys jumped from her pocket to Dumbledore's open hand, clanking as they hit his ring. He casually returned them to the desk in front of her.

He smiled. "I'm sorry; you were saying about surrendering proof?"

She pursed her lips, saying nothing. She was absorbing what she had just seen, and mentally picturing her Hogwarts evidence flying here from Aberdeen the same way.

"You can't silence all of us, Mr. Dumbledore. Too many people have helped me investigate. They're witnesses to all of this, too."

"Aside from your co-workers, you must mean Mr. Cameron and his detectives. We've been aware of their intrusions here for some time. Well, I must apologise for the lot of them. They've become a bit foggy about what they found up here, and I'm afraid they won't be of much help."

Somehow, Kiki knew he wasn't exaggerating. "Are you going to silence me, too, old man?"

"In your case, no need. We'll work it out amicably. You wouldn't violate the Secrets Act, would you?"

"Oh, don't try to wind me up. You're not government."

"Well, not really, but in a way, you could say we are connected. If you'll just wait around, some gentlemen from the Ministry will want to have a few words with you."

"Are you going to pretend your phony wilderness sanctuary is high-tech spies?"

"More than a few of us have ended up as spies, yes. We'd be most valuable to the cause. But we tend to have more commonplace occupations, and use our talents to their best advantage."

"Such as flying on a broomstick, for instance? Don't deny it; I saw it, that first horrible night. So have the people of Bumpus."

"Oh, flying might prove useful. If one grew up with a fear of heights, they might overcome it while learning to fly a broom. That would come in handy in some demanding jobs -- for instance, in your line of work. I knew some men who used to fear flying, but in time, they were leaning out of a rickety Spad -- with a large camera -- to take survey photos. Are you related, by any chance, to a Heber Rankin and his wife, Gladiola?"

Kiki stared. "They're my grandparents. But what does that have to..."

"So! Then which boy is your father -- Peter, or his brother Steve?"

"Peter. How do you know my uncle Ste..."

"See that? Silly of me. I should have connected your surname to them before today, and might have saved us this whole exercise. And what of their wives, Daisy and Flora Elroy, the twins? They're doing well, I presume."

"They're fine. Why.."

"When you see the lot, tell them Albus send his greetings. I'm sure they'll be amused to hear of your little adventure."

"Amused? AMUSED? Mr. Dumbledore, do you think I'm amused by all this inane chatter? What does my family have to do with _anything_ I'm talking about?"

"Tell me, Miss Rankin: do you have any idea where your parents and grandparents went to school?"

"Not the foggiest."

"To the contrary. 'The foggiest' is, perhaps, the right answer, according to your photos. In an hour or so, the Ministry folks would like to sit down with you and clear the fog. I'm sure you'll wait around; Madam Rosmerta will see to your breakfast. When they come, pay particular attention to the term "squib" as it applies in your case, and understand that it's not at all a slur, but in fact will open many doors to you, especially here. Good day, Miss Rankin."

-o-

It was a relatively warm Saturday morning in May. Nevertheless, the lady who opened the door and walked into Katy Noonan's book shop in Hogsmeade wore a striped scarf, draped loosely over her shoulders.

"Hello, Kiki, how are... _blue an' bronze?_ Where's yer loyalties? What hoppened to yer Gryffindor scarf?"

"Gone, Katy. I gave it to my aunt Flo. It turns out she's the only Gryffindor black sheep in our family. The rest are all loyal Ravenclaws, so on a Quidditch weekend, I guess I am too. How's Jock and little Charlotte?"

"Thi're out at the pitch, as usual, and hopin' Gryffindor has its act together today. Can ye get me more copies of the satellite photo? Since they posted yer blowup in the lobby, thi're sellin' like wildfire."

"No problem, Katy. I'll be back in the office Monday. And now I've got the best wizard's camera Diagon Alley could find. One of these weekends, my father's going to take me up for a photo shoot over the whole school grounds. I'm still scared about hitching a ride on his broom, but there are just so _many_ photo ops on this spot!"


End file.
